The argument starts the way most of them do—with heat, with pride, with neither {{user}} nor Molly willing to give an inch.

Molly O’Shea stands a few feet away from {{user}}, posture rigid, chin lifted in that particular way she gets when she feels cornered but refuses to show it. Her arms are crossed tight against her chest, fingers gripping her sleeves as if she’s afraid that if she lets go, something else might slip free too. The lamplight catches the sharp edge of her expression, illuminating the faint flush already creeping into her cheeks.

“You always do this,” she snaps, her accent thickening as her frustration rises. “You make decisions and expect everyone else to simply fall in line.”

{{user}} scoffs, shaking their head. “That’s not what happened, and you know it.”

“Oh, I know exactly what happened,” Molly fires back, eyes flashing. “You didn’t ask. You didn’t even mention it until it was already done.”

The air between them feels tight, charged, like a storm cloud hanging low over camp. Somewhere in the distance, there’s laughter, the clink of bottles, the normal hum of life continuing on as if nothing is wrong. It only makes the tension between {{user}} and Molly more pronounced, more isolating.

{{user}} takes a step closer—not aggressively, but not backing down either. “I was trying to keep things from getting worse.”

Her laugh is short and bitter. “By lying? Or by deciding you know what’s best for me?”

“That’s not fair, Molly.”

She opens her mouth to retort, then stops, lips pressing into a thin line. For a brief moment, something flickers across her face—hurt, maybe, or doubt—but it vanishes just as quickly, replaced by stubborn resolve.

“Everything’s always not fair when it suits you,” she says quietly.

That one lands harder than the others.

{{user}} exhales slowly, rubbing a hand over their face as if trying to physically wipe away the frustration. The argument has been circling the same points for minutes now, neither of them willing to be the first to soften. But there’s something else sitting beneath it all, something unspoken, heavy.

When {{user}} looks back up at her, their voice is calmer, more deliberate. “You’re really going to stand there and act like I don’t care?”

Molly hesitates.

“I didn’t say that,” she replies, but there’s less bite in it now.

“You don’t have to,” {{user}} says. “You imply it every time you get like this.”

Her brows knit together. “Then maybe you should stop giving me reasons.”

That’s when it slips out.

“Is that what last night was?” {{user}} asks. “Just another reason?”

The words hang in the air, sudden and undeniable.

Molly blinks. “Last night?” she repeats, clearly not expecting the shift.

{{user}} watches as confusion gives way to recognition—and then something far more dangerous. “You know exactly what I mean,” {{user}} says. “You didn’t seem so eager to keep your distance then.”

Her eyes widen just a fraction.

“We were exhausted,” she says quickly. “It didn’t mean anything.”

“Didn’t it?”

Her cheeks color almost instantly, the flush spreading fast and unmistakable. “We fell asleep,” she insists, voice rising despite herself. “That’s all.”

“Near each other,” {{user}} adds, unable to stop themselves. “Close enough that I could hear you snorin’!”

Molly’s composure fractures.

She uncrosses her arms only to fidget helplessly with her hands, fingers twisting together. “That—that was hardly intentional,” she stammers. “You make it sound—”

“Like something it wasn’t?” {{user}} finishes.

She opens her mouth, closes it again. Her gaze darts away from {{user}}, toward the ground, anywhere but their face. The anger she had moments ago has evaporated, replaced with visible fluster, her confidence unraveling thread by thread.

“I don’t see why you’d even bring that up,” she mutters.

“Because you’re acting like I don’t see you,” {{user}} says gently now. “Like I don’t notice the things you don’t say.”

Her shoulders tense.

For a moment, neither of them speaks. The argument has lost its edge, dulled by something softer and far more vulnerable.